


Carcinogenic

by Erring_and_umming



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Agent Curt Mega Has ADHD, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Curt is a himbo, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gay Disaster Curt, Getting Together, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Owen is just holding a sign that says 'I'm into you' and Curt can't read, Period-Typical Homophobia, also a hard relate, and I hard relate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29756421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erring_and_umming/pseuds/Erring_and_umming
Summary: Chimera? Why does that ring a faint bell?Curt is an entire idiot and a half when it comes to, well anything, but especially Owen.  When a mission goes tits up, Curt finds himself drunk in the famous gay bar The City of Quebec in London and that's where things begin to fall apart.*You'd be surprised how serious this humourous little diddy gets. Just like the real thing. Tears: optional. Dress: smart casual. Spies: Forever*
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	Carcinogenic

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lot of swearing in this because I imagine Curt's internal monologue is made up of: 'Fuck' and 'Owen'. Obviously not necessarily in that order. 
> 
> I would recommend when you get to the last part (and don't worry you'll know when you get to the end) Listening to: The Pure and the Damned by Oneohtrix Point Never and Iggy Pop. It suits the last scene just *chef kiss* perfectly.

Smog always defined London; it settled itself across the rooftops and cobblestones without a care for the world's struggling asthmatics, nor its cab drivers that had to navigate in the half-light. But if Curt was honest with himself, as he nearly always was, he was thankful for it. It was an excellent cover to be subsumed by the grey haze that shielded every whisper and flaccid promise from chapped lips.

He wasn't proud, but what was a man to do?

The City of Quebec was a nice enough pub, traditional and stout and very, very straight in appearance. But it was more of a promise than a venue. It's curtains always stayed closed, and it was filled with men and swirling smoke and golden liquor that sat sweetly on tongues.

He should've been enjoying it, the jazz that floated through the air, wrapping him in the warmth of its honeyed notes. The rough-skinned hands that slid and the glazed eyes that wandered. The too-tall women that strutted and batted eyelashes with the promise of stolen kisses. It was, in many ways, everything Curt had ever wanted when he was young.

He wanted none of it now.

Anger broiled in his stomach and was spoiling the evening something terrible. Owen, the posh, limey bastard, was _spoiling_ his evening. His sneer lingered behind Curt’s eyelids, and despite their mission's success, the MI6 agent had felt it necessary to chew him out for what he perceived as recklessness and refuse his invitation to celebrate.

But improvisation was Curt's speciality, and it was evident that it set his partner on edge after five missions together. The Brit thought it was dangerous; Curt found the other man's rigidity just as irresponsible—he would not stray from the plan even if it got them killed.

This led them to a stalemate, so Curt found himself leaving—improvising again—and walking down empty streets that whispered of trysts and secrets and godawful hot chips that left Curt unsure of any Brit's sanity. 

Now he stared into amber liquid elbows on the sticky bar top in an attempt to banish his partner's disappointment from his mind with stale air and lingering glances.

"Evening," eyes like two sapphire chips discovered his, turning Curt’s innards to soup. _Jesus,_ he was beautiful, all floppy-haired and light and _James Dean_. Not exactly Curt's type but nearly entirely bewitching, "Name's Theo."

An American too. A smirking American. An _attractive_ American.

"C-Curt," he sputtered. _Idiot._

"Ah! An American as well. What brings you to the ass of the world?" Theo whispered as if they were apart of a secret joke and the heady smell of cigars on his breath left Curt dizzy.

Curt struggled to collect himself, heart hammering, "Business I…I suppose, just finishing up and…celebrating," he finished lamely; he could feel the sting of his blush staining his cheeks, "You?"

"Business and pleasure," Theo threw back his head and laughed at his own joke. Curt found himself watching his adam's apple bob with each throaty chuckle, "I’m actually here visiting my cousin, right square he is, but eh! Family’s family, you know?” A bartender wandered over, all smiles and dark eyeliner. “What are you drinking, dear?” Theo asked.

Curt was sure he’d just been punched in the gut, _dear,_ Christ.

“Ah, whiskey.”

“Two whiskies, actually whisky here,” Theo said, gesturing to Curt, “and an old fashioned for me, extra on orange if you could.”

“Want something a bit sweet, do you?” Curt could feel himself grinning, laying on a bit of that natural charm, letting himself slip into the familiar dance.

“Cuts through the bitter, I reckon,” Theo said with a dazzling smile.

“That it does.”

The two clink glasses as Theo pays for the drinks. Curt finds himself looking the man up and down. He’s sunlit all over despite the darkness of the bar, tans and blues and the petal pinks of his lips – a vision.

“Like what you see?” the man’s grin was wolfish and sly. Curt averted his eyes, his blush growing deeper as Theo leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of his ear, “You’re right pretty when you blush.”

The hairs on the back of Curt’s neck stood at attention. He found his glass against his lips and the whiskey down his throat, drowning his nerves. The image of Theo through the glass was all warped and fractured—easier to process.

“I can be right pretty in a lot of ways,” Curt breathed back, and it was now Theo’s turn to turn beat red.

The two locked eyes, and it was over.

“Want to get out of here?”

The drinks were downed, and the door was left swinging.

* * *

Illegality, Curt found, barely stopped anyone from doing much – except maybe speeding, cause damn, those fines were expensive.

His life was permeated with half-crimes. His actions from the outside would seem reprehensible were it not for the shield of A.S.S. However, love—for him—was always straying into the red. That is if what you could call vague flings hidden in giggling shadows love. It snuffed itself out so quick and left one shuddering in the dark, clinging to empty sheets and berating the thought of anything ever enduring past moans of other names and sweat-slicked brows—nothing was built to last. It would be the same story with Theo, an endless feedback lop of pleasure-pain that left Curt faint.

There was nothing incriminating about this night so far, other than being caught at The City of Quebec, but that was easily covered. He was looking for leads in a bar full of communists. He always found himself wondering if Cynthia found out about his lifestyle, whether she would believe him to be a commie; this typically set his insides on fire. She hated communists and would probably literally set his insides on fire.

But Curt couldn’t bring himself to care as the two wandered down the rain glossed streets of London, knuckles brushing against one another. They were the same height. Curt hated it. He liked a man who was a little taller—sue him—maybe a little darker as well, someone who could wrap him up completely.

Curt wasn’t even remotely surprised that Owen floated in his mind, the bastard was always ruining things by being so fucking charming and beautiful, and _God_ , Curt just wished he would leave him in peace.

“Come here,” Theo whispered, dragging Curt into an rubbish filled alley with a quick quirk of the lips.

The bricks dug into his back, and the slat-topped eaves hung above them, shielding them from the watching eyes of the whitewashed moon. The kiss was fine, a lot of teeth, more than he would have liked, maybe a bit too much spit, but Theo was, for all intents and purposes—enthusiastic. It was nice to be wanted; it left a nice warm feeling in Curt’s stomach and vapour-like clouds in his head, leaving everything warbling at the edges.

Theo pulled away, pupils blown to a near black, “Where do you want to go? Mine?”

Curt knew it was far more dangerous to go back with the man. However, Owen was at the hotel room they were sharing, probably brooding over their mission report chain-smoking, most likely scowling. His return with Theo had the potential to be one of the most awkward interactions of his life.

“Yours it is,” Curt said softly. 

Theo smiled, easy and all eyes. They giggled like schoolboys and set off.

* * *

Theo’s hotel was not in a particularly nice part of town, the building seemed to be hunched over, and the streets themselves were filled with refuse. But the two were sipping from a silvery hip flask and talking inanely about anything coming to mind, and so Curt was content. He allowed himself to pretend that the man was someone else, that the awkward pauses in their conversation were just lulls, moments of quiet to be enjoyed rather than feared.

The two chased each other up the stairs, feet thumping against the carpet, barely keeping it down for the other patrons, barely caring about the threat of eyes upon them—tripping and kissing and pushing and biting.

Theo dug around for his keys, and Curt tapped his foot, eager to get going. Turn – click – open – thank God.

“After you,” Theo said, gesturing grandly to the room.

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” Curt smiled, allowing his terrible English accent to colour his voice with a laugh as he wandered into the dark room. “Hey, where’s the light?” he asked, running his fingertips against the wall in search of the switch. What would Owen think of this? Finding and fucking a stranger in lieu of him. Probably nothing savoury.

The door clicked shut behind him, and he felt the ghost of Theo’s lips against the back of his neck, “Do we need it?”

“I suppose not,” Curt whispered, a thrill ran up his spin as he turned around in the other man’s arms. He felt something cold press against his forehead.

“Finally, alone, agent Mega.”

Wait…was that a British accent.

Shit.

* * *

Curt wasn’t afraid. He’d done this too many times to feel it—fear was made up of scar tissue; eventually, it built up until the agony was distant with only the possibility of a dull ache afterwards. Mostly, he was concerned with the fact that Owen was going to _kill him_ for getting caught _._ So, Curt shut himself away in a box in the back of his mind and allowed the persona to come forward, the confidence of the spy that he wished to be. Great for torture, bad for getting people to like him.

“Glad to know I’ve got a fan base,” Curt snarked.

Pain bloomed immediately from his temple as the butt of the gun slammed into him, “Don’t flirt now, agent. What will people think?” Curt felt the trickle of blood trail down his face as he froze— _fucking pistol whip_. He was an idiot, Cynthia was right; his pigheadedness was bound to get him in trouble eventually and here it was in a handsome package. “Get on the bed.”

“What?”

“Get on the bed.”

“I can’t see it, man. How I meant to—”

The lights flickered on. “There.”

Curt met the cold ice-chip-eyes of Theo and the ugly sneer upon his lips. Maybe he was wrong, this wasn’t James Dean, this man was a hawk. Plain and simple.

The gun was pointed at his chest without a tremble, and Curt’s heart beat a staccato beat against his ribs. Theo looked him up and down; there was nothing of the man he met at the bar left. The shell spoke, “Now…get on the bed.”

Curt had very little choice but to comply. He turned to face the room, and he was met with a map of faces (his own included), newspaper clippings, wires haphazardly strewn across the floor, pieces of hardware.

“W-what is all this?”

Silence. Curt made his way onto the bed with his tripping gait; the blow to the head had seemingly made the world into a funhouse mirror, as the room stretched around him; the walls were billowing sheets and the windows were filled with laughing faces bathed in shadow. But when he reached the bed, the world settled. The pillows weren’t even plush, and the mattress was nearly as bad as the ground. This night just kept getting worse, but at least it wasn’t spinning.

“It’s just my work,” Theo responded. He grabbed some wires from the ground and tied Curt to the headboard with a grunt.

“And who pray tell are you working for?”

“You’re the one tied up, Mega. Maybe I should be asking the questions.”

“Well, you know who I am, so I’m guessing Soviets?”

“Wrong. I don’t work for an agency.”

Curt looked around the room in disbelief, “But you were sent to find me? Following me, I assume.”

“Nope. Wrong again.”

“What—”

The door slammed shut, and Curt was alone. 

“Fuck.”

Curt looked around the tiny room, trying to keep his breathing to an even stutter rather than the panicked gasps he craved. There was no use in panicking—panic was a killer and a bitch. He had been in worse scrapes than this, but the tightening in his chest and prickling of his skin told him differently. How could he have been so careless? 

The curling newspaper clippings on the wall told him little, varying stories of political intrigue from years ago, nothing current, except for the C.I.A.’s involvement with overthrowing the government in Guatemala. Plans to reunify Germany but nothing…local. This guy was involved in something big, something beyond the reach of London.

Curt’s stomach sank; he looked to his improvised restraints. The wires were already chafing against his skin, leaving streaks of pink against the pale skin of his wrists. But his watch was still there gleaming under the fluorescent light that hung above him. Theo may have known his name, but seemingly knew little about the tech that A.S.S. agents carried on their persons. He shifted his wrist, his skin was pilling in painful throbs as he tried to activate his communicator. He could not allow this man to kill him, not when his last interaction with Owen had left such a bitter taste in his mouth.

He yanked harder, keeping his groan of pain in his throat as the metal bit into his skin. If he got out of this, Cynthia was going to chase him for a tetanus shot. Curt felt a little jump of nerves at the prospect; she always made sure that shit was painful. With one final pull, he managed to press the button with a piece of jagged wire. The watch crackled for a moment.

“Agent Mega,” Barb’s tinny voice called out into the room.

“Barb! Barb, I need to you track my location I’ve been—”

The door swung open, and Theo stood in the doorway, dark and looming, his body bent like a hook under the weight of the toolbox in his hands.

“Curt? Curt?!” Barb was panicking; her voice was rising with a helium-filled gasp into the room.

Theo smiled, all teeth and gums. He put down the rusted toolbox, removed a wrench, and Curt felt himself scrambling away.

“Ah!” Theo said as he considered the wrench, weighing it in his hands like he was facing a challenging puzzle.

“Curt? Are you okay?”

“Unfortunately not, my dear.” Theo quipped. He slammed the wrench down on Curt’s wrist with a crunch of bone and a slip of silver through the air. Curt stifled a scream as pain shot through his system, searing his nerves and causing sweat to bead at his brow. Blackness pockmarked his vision as waves of chartreuse marbled his vision in spurts. Glass and metal cut into the wound as he moved. Tears stung at his eyes, threatening to break the banks of his eyelashes, but he forced them back.

“Very naughty, Mega. No use crying when you’re trying to stay alive, right? I thought we were here to have a civil discussion.”

Curt grit out, “You’ve tied me to a bed that goes beyond civil.”

“So, I have, but some do enjoy the acts of bondage. From what I have heard…well, this position is not completely unknown to you. So many men and so unlike me, I’m surprised you came with me. No tall, dark and handsome here. Or did you just wish to forget?” The man came forward, feet soft upon the ground and his pink tongue darted out, licking the tears from Curt’s face. He tried to scramble away but a hand curled around his throat, Theo’s knobbly fingers pressed down upon his larynx leaving him wheezing for air—head swimming. Theo released him and leaned back with a satisfied smile. 

Curt felt a scream of frustration lodge itself in his throat, but he remained silent, grinding his teeth to keep himself quiet. His stomach rolled as another pulse of pain rushed through him.

“Now, Curt, I’m not here to hurt you unless you insist upon it with misbehaviour.”

Theo stalked around to the other side of the bed, his movement smooth as water, his features twisted, and skin a sickly green under the lights.

“The silent treatment is cute, but I can see it on your face, baby, questions. Come on, ask me.”

Curt squared his jaw and stared at the man, taking in his face. He was crazy; there was no question about it, a tendon in Theo’s jaw jumped, his eyes flashed, and blood flushed his face. 

Curt’s eyes barely caught the pale flash of the hand before it connected with his face in a stinging crescendo.

“Ask me!” spittle flew through the air and landed on Curt’s smarting cheek.

“Why?”

The room fell silent once more. Theo stepped away; head hung low. Curt, watching on, was sure he was going to have to be treated for emotional whiplash. He was all over the place. Curt was coming to believe that the man had truly taken him on a whim.

“I just want…I have been alone, in this room for months…losing my—just losing it! None to speak to except—Imagine my surprise when I came across you.”

“In a gay bar?”

“Agent Mega, do not be mistaken. I, my dear, am as camp as a row to tents.” Curt felt his jaw swing loose; he was unable to help himself, despite Theo’s chuckles. “Did you think that I was just there for you? No, no, that was _purely_ coincidence, I assure you. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. What would my superiors think? When I hand you in, I mean.”

“And I will just tell them!” Curt hissed; victory was in his grasp.

“Oh, you think they care? That’s so sweet, my dear. They do not give a toss about who I find myself in bed with as long as I do my job.” Theo was smiling again. He could feel his finger twitch, so ready to wrap around a throat and make a messy ruby pulp of the man in front of him. 

“You’re lying.”

“I’d let you check my pulse if I didn’t think you’d strangle me.”

And things become devastatingly apparent to him. Everything shifted, and the whiskey-haze moves into sharp rifle-like focus, “You’re out?”

“You could be too. My company, agency, whatever you would wish to call it, we aim to…to remove secrets, to seize their power and make them ineffectual—outmoded.” Theo was exposed, one large, shuddering pink and blue creature that shook in front of him with the fervour of his so called cause. Curt nearly would have been convinced, if the man hadn’t shattered his wrist like an egg barely a minute ago.

“After [10450](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lavender_scare#Executive_Order_10450), not likely,” Curt scoffed. He hid the glimmering hope that hooked itself into his chest behind the wall of his own carefully crafted apathy. Hope was, for all intents and purposes, the nastiest of a spy’s weapons—the deadliest—the thing that burnt the brightest. 

Theo chuckled – a rockfall of a laugh.

The two fell into silence again, neither willing to speak as the mildewed walls swallowed up every sound. Distantly they could hear a domestic argument, a husband and wife, Australians, infidelity, something about the custody of a dog and the slamming of doors.

Curt suppressed each thrumming of his heart that threatened to tear through his limbs. He felt swollen; each extremity felt heavy with dread. Each sluggish movement of his heart brought him closer to the churning conclusions that were already fermenting within him.

There was nothing this man wanted except him. There was no information that he needed, nothing that would allow him to come crawling back to Cynthia with an apology on his lips and a new directive in his pocket. The man wanted to rip him away from everything he cared about, to shape him, twist him and create something new from what remained of his broken body. He was under no illusion of what this ‘agency’ would do to him if they wanted him; he was well aware of what it took to break a man. What it would take to break him, it would be a long slog—months even—but everything is meant to end, and men are always the same, a rope to snap and really, nothing more.

His agency was full of virtuosos, trained in the art of creating sinless, new men from the ruins of K.G.B agents, deserters and on the rare occasion—civilians. He had done it himself, made spies of shining calibre break, give up the names of their wives, lovers, school chums, their children—all to stop the agony.

His head hit the wall, and he closed his eyes. He let himself be carried off by the out-tide of his mind.

He would never see Owen again. No stupid, fucking Owen Carvour with all his faults and that tight brow that made him look older than he actually was. At least he’d never have to pine after him again. That was a drag.

“Please.”

It was a whisper; he could barely hear it, just feel it pass his lips.

“Do you think—”

The world exploded.

* * *

“Curt? C-Curt? Hey, buddy, wake up.”

Now, just to be clear, Curt was sure he was dead. This was death.

Not as wild as he thought it would be but more painful and there was slightly more dialogue involved. Kind of shit and completely dark, but what is one to expect of the big sleep?

He had high hopes of being taken out by a stray bullet, maybe he’d fall into oblivion one day, already passed out before his body broke on ground, or, perhaps someone would slip poison into his food, and he would pass half-painlessly in his sleep. Maybe his mother would finally kill him after realising that he would never get a wife. But he knew he would never die in his sleep; that was ridiculous and no death for a Mega, let alone a spy.

And he had no plans of waking up.

“I know you’re awake.”

 _Fuck._ Without a predilection towards religion, Curt was pissed; what entity had decided to exist and have a chat right now? Because if it was God, he had a few choice words in mind. If what he had heard of God was to be believed, of course.

“If you don’t wake up right now, I’m going to repeat the events of Barcelona, but right here,” There was a poke just underneath the back of his skull. Wait, _back of his skull?_

His eyes cracked open, and Curt had, frankly, felt like last week’s garbage, left out to rot in the hot sun.

“Finally, old man!” Owen smiled, dazzling, bright and crooked to all hell. Curt’s heart, which he wasn’t sure was even working, let him know of its presence by fluttering – still a traitor by all accounts.

“You wouldn’t dare Carvour,” Curt said, hoping it would be biting, but it came out as a rasped whisper.

“Quite a rude thing to say to the man who’s saving your backside.”

“Have you done it yet?” Curt avoided the man’s gaze, no need to make eye contact and get lost; his head was already swimming as it was.

“Right in the middle of it, love, give me your hands,” Owen said with a chuckle, looking at his bound wrists.

“Very funny. Know where Theo is?”

“Theo?” Owen asked, dark eyebrow quirking.

Curt repressed a sigh, “Captor.”

Owen smiled easily as if they weren’t sitting in a hotel room riddled with bullet holes. Curt looked around, sure that yellowing walls were far improved with the pockmarks and gunpowder residue.

“He’s just over there. Knocked him out. We should question him, I suppose, or perhaps just kick his teeth in? Your decision, dear.”

Curt’s stomach flipped and landed around his knees.

“Both sounds good.”

“Both sounds perfect.”

Curt internally cursed at the amused beam Carvour sent him as the wires finally snapped; Curt rubbed his wrists, feeling the throb of blood finally reach his aching fingertips.

“Thanks, O.”

Curt would swear to all the gods, high and low, after that moment that Owen Carvour, MI6 operative and self-proclaimed man-of-stone, blushed prettily.

Now, contrary to popular belief, carrying a body, especially a deadweight between two people, is not easy. Limbs are loose, hair goes astray, and clothes slip. There’s usually a lot of cursing involved, and Curt was hurt. His wrist and hand were more like his mother’s mess of a crab salad sandwich than anything as practical as a working appendage.

But live and let live, these two had survived worse, and they would do so again.

Curt rolled his eyes when they made it onto the chilly London street; Owen had left the car idling and coughing, keys in the ignition, a welcome buffet for any thief or carjacker within the block. But the bastard was always lucky. Curt, in that second, had a great appreciation for how close love and hate were together within the human spirit. Owen _fucking_ Carvour.

“Come on, love, push now,” Owen said from within the belly of the beast. It was his personal car and all. Some vintage thing that sat too close to the road for comfort that his father had handed down to him when he was a youngster.

“You sure this is okay, O? We might get blood on the seats.”

“Anything for you, my love.”

Curt also hated _all_ British slang and terms of endearment. They did nothing for his early-onset heart condition, and neither did British agents smiling from the inside of a car as they pulled upon an unconscious man’s lapels. It was time for early retirement if he could drag himself away from Owen that is. With one final push, the two manage to get Theo into the back and with a smirk seemingly only reserved for the devil, Owen pulled out some of the discarded wire from the floor and bound the unconscious man’s hands. Curt realised that retirement was a far-off dream with a smile like that directed right at him – God, he was going to go fucking blind.

“Let’s go.”

Curt rolled his eyes and got into the car. Engine roaring, they pealed off into the night.

The street rolled underneath them, disappearing in streaks of white and grey. Curt pressed his cheek against the glass of the window, letting the cool surface seep into his body.

“You’re going to grease up my window; you’re all sweaty Mega.”

Curt stopped the pout that was forming at his lips. _No way._ So he snorted instead, “It was already greasy. You’re always pressing your face up against it, too nosey you are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

The banter was comfortable; it puts a little wall between them, friends banter after all. Banter fucking stung sometimes.

“Am not.”

Curt couldn’t help the sigh that escaped his lips and misted up the window. It was greasy too, he would know Owen’s fingerprints anywhere. What the hell had the man been doing in here anyway? 

“Come on, Mega, don’t do that. This is where you say ‘Are too’ come on, I know it’s hard for you to wrap your head around the basics, but...”

Curt barked out a laugh and looked over at the other man in a moment of weakness. Owen was bathed in a halo that winked in and out with the passing of the street lights. Shadows danced and warped across his face, giving him the chance to see every little crevice and scar that time had seen fit to give his partner.

“Got a camera there, old boy?” Owen chortled, changing down a gear as they came to a stoplight. Now the man was bathed in red, the light bounced and flittered across his dark locks so handsomely, but Curt found himself looking away, if only for fear of what Carvour would say. Bastard.

“Sorry, O.”

Owen worried his lip, a habit he had picked up from a Guatemalan warlord. It ordinarily meant he wanted a cigarette, or he was about to say something profound or serious or deadly or upsetting. Curt hoped to that two-faced prick of a God that it was the first option.

Owen reached across the dashboard for the glovebox as the light turned green; Curt leaned back, as far away from the warmth of the other man’s arm as he could. With a click, the glovebox fell open, and he grabbed his cigarette holder. He flicked it open and shoved a little white finger of tobacco in between his lips. Curt let out a breath that he was surprised to note had caught itself in his chest.

“Gimme a light, would you darling?” Curt gave him a confused look, or as Owen would describe it, ‘The Curt Mega Special With All The Trimmings.’ The Englishman had the gall to believe he was funny, of all things.

But Curt complied, a spark lit up from his zippo, orange tongues waltz at the end of his fingers, and he brought it to Owen’s lips, the other man’s eyes stayed glued to the road, brow furrowed and pink petal lips drawn tight as he inhaled. Curt savoured the image, locked it in his mind, right in the back, the place he had no-so-sarcastically called his _homo homestead._

At least Curt could be funny for both of them.

“Now dear,” Owen spoke around his cigarette as Curt extinguished the flame. “Are you going to explain how I received a _very_ stressful call from the love of my life, Barb,” Curt rolled his eyes at that. Owen was always trying to get a rise out of him about Barb. Curt had received so many elbows in the ribs about the woman he was surprised Owen’s efforts hadn’t turned him straight yet. Owen continued, “She _yelled at me._ Me. She proposed that we marry, of course, but I declined her, she’s your gal, after all, Mega, and so as revenge, I was sent to gallantly save you, as you already know from the fact that you’re in this car and not strapped to the bed. A good look, by the way.” Owen was puffing on the cigarette, sending ash through the air in swirling vortexes. His eyes were contorting storm clouds that spoke of some inner turmoil that Curt had no hope of grasping, but they were luckily glued the road. “What I’m trying to say, my dear, is how the bloody hell did you get caught? What were you doing? And who in all of the Queen’s good England is that?” Owen gestured wildly to the back of the car where Theo laid.

Finally, Owen got to the point and Curt, for the life of him, wished he hadn’t. It was time to spin a very good, very straight tale.

“Whenever you mention the Queen, you sound too British for your own good.”

“Deflection.”

Curt sagged into his seat. It wasn’t a good strategy, but he was tired, and his limbs were all made of molasses for all he knew.

“I dunno, O. He just jumped me on the street just right after, you know, after we had that fight.”

Owen took another drag, the burning tobacco drew Curt’s eye, a tiny little sun connected to long graceful fingers. Owen Carvour, the ever-living, nine-lives-having, lucky prick, laughed – of all things. Deep and warm and it shuddered right through his bones, and Curt just grabbed at his broken wrist with a hiss to stop himself from jumping across the seat towards his partner.

“I don’t believe that for a second. You smell like booze my boy, and the only person who can get the jump on you is Cynthia, and that’s just because she’s so short and you never look down.” Owen tapped the steering wheel as if in deep thought, “Don’t tell her I said that.”

“She probably already knows.”

Owen chuckled again, “Yeah, I swear that woman has telepathy…Curt, look, you don’t— you don’t have to tell me alright,” Curt noticed the classic manipulation tactic, vulnerability, wobbly lip and all. Unluckily for him, he was likely to fall for it hook line and sinker, “But I would like you to. I was…I was worried about you, because, well it was a bit of my fault, you know, you leaving the room and all…”

Curt sucked in a breath, too quick, it caught, and the smoke was doing him no favours—coughs wracked his body.

A moan came from the back of the car, cutting off their conversation much to Curt’s pleasure. He turned around, the muscles in his back pulling as he took in the beat-up body of Theo. The man’s eyes fluttered.

“He’s coming round, O,” Curt warned.

“Nearly there.”

Theo’s eyes flicked open; the two light pools were just visible behind the dusting of his eyelashes. They widened, and Curt did the only reasonable thing. Grabbed Owen’s gun from its holster and pistol-whipped him. Only the raising of a single eyebrow gave away Owen’s reaction as the other man passed out cold again, a tiny creek of crimson making its way down his temple.

“That feel good?”

“Always does.”

Owen grinned, all wide and toothy, and Curt really did wish he had a camera.

Owen pulled the car up, taking it under the hotel and out of sight of the street. The concrete pressed down on them, and the blubs of the lights above them were filled with moths. Some still sputtered with their last throws of life against the glass.

“Oi, head in the game.”

Curt dragged his eyes away from the light and looked towards Owen; he was a bit frazzled, eyes blown wide and hair askew. His skin was paler than usual under the white lights that beat down upon him. Still a handsome prick though.

“Sorry, I’ll uh—I’ll get the feet.”

“You dog Mega.”

“Shut it and pull.”

Owen sent him a sly wink that left Curt biting his tongue. God, the line between a punch or a kiss in the mouth for Owen was becoming nonexistent.

He may have deserved both.

The tussle to get Theo up the stairs and to the hotel room was somewhat more straightforward than getting him out of the previous building. Their hotel had an elevator, after all.

Owen dug for his keys for a moment, his mouth a grim line, and he pulled them out with a flash of silver. He turned the lock and opened the door wide. They shuffled into the dark, and Curt found the light immediately, flicking it on.

“Carvour, what the fuck?” The room was a disaster. A pack of rabid dogs had obviously been at it, clothes were strewn across the floor, and the lamp had seen better days considering it was smashed into a pathetic heap.

“I was in a rush,” Owen muttered, dumping Theo on the floor before tying him to the radiator with barely hidden glee.

Foot, meet mouth, meet Curt.

“Sorry,” Curt mumbled.

“What? Did I just hear you right, my dear?”

“Don’t get used to it, _love_.” Curt found himself smiling around his malicious use of the moniker.

Owen balked, “We need to fix you up and then wake this shite up,” Owen kicked Theo’s foot, “Nice shoes though,” he bent down and inspected them a moment before untying the laces with practised ease.

“What are you doing?”

“Doubt he’ll need them soon. So, I’ll just,” the shoes slipped free, and Theo shifted, turning away from him in his imposed slumber, “take them. I need a new pair of brogues after today anyway.” Owen put the shoes down next to his duffle bag, “Alright, love, come on, with me, we’ll clean that hand of yours, alright?”

“Alright. That’s stealing, you know?” 

“I know you’re trying to sound put out, but I can tell you’re very glad I’m here to take care of you,” Owen said with a roll of his eye as he sauntered off into the bathroom. Curt followed, a dog at Owen’s heels, much to his chagrin.

The bathroom was not delightful by any stretch of the imagination; budgets were always being cut, and the first thing to go was nearly always accommodation. At least this time, they had been given separate beds, the last time they had had to share it was an unmitigated disaster.

Owen was already bent over, searching through the peeling lino cabinets. Curt decided it was best to just sit on the cool lip of the bath and wait.

“I swear I put—ah! Here, here it is.” Owen pulled a small first aid kit in triumph.

“What’s in there, a few band-aids?” Curt asked.

“I’ll have you know it folds out,” Owen said as he unzipped the little bag to reveal many folding and confusing parts, “You would’ve known that if you concentrated in your first-aid training.”

“We’re from different agencies, O. The training is different.”

“But did you do it?”

Curt paused, and with a sigh, muttered, “No.”

“You’re really going to be the death of me, Mega, only if you don’t get yourself killed first.”

And was that not the worst thing Curt could imagine? He gulped and shoved his hand in Owen’s face to hide the scowl that rippled across his face.

“Don’t say that.”

“Jesus, look at this hand—Curt, honestly, you wouldn’t allow yourself to die on the field you’re too bloody proud—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Curt hissed as Owen laid delicate fingers upon his pulped-up wrist. His partner’s eyes grew dark and Curt, in all his wisdom, knew that he had mucked up.

Owen swallowed thickly, and for the second time that night, Curt was watching an Adam's apple bob in a throat—Jesus Christ he was a pervert. He wrenched his eyes away, observing as Owen rubbed ointment into his hand, only feeling a mild pressure from the man’s ministrations.

“What’s, erm, what’s the damage, doc?”

“I-it’s, um, very broken from what I can tell.”

“Really?”

Owen rolled his eyes so hard Curt was nearly certain they would fall out of the man’s skull, “Yes, Curt, really, your lack of insight into your own health really astounds me sometimes.” Curt flinched back at the cutting tone, “Ah-ah,” Owen continued, “Stay right here. I need to bandage it up.”

Owen wrapped his hand up gently, with touches that were barely there until the end when pressure was gradually applied. Curt hissed but kept most of his complaints that sizzled at the end of his tongue under lock and key. Owen stood up and stretched as soon as they were done.

“Alright, let’s wake this guy up.” He paused, looking Curt up and down with a slight frown, “If you’re up for it?”

Curt squared his shoulders, “Of course I am,” he said gruffly, trying to shoulder past his partner. Owen grabbed him by the bicep, and his fingers nearly burnt his skin, nothing like the tiny touches against his hand.

“I’m serious, Curt.”

“So am I,” Curt said as he shook himself free, “This guy messed with me.”

“Fair enough, love, you know I’ve got to check.”

Curt melted at that a bit. He felt his shoulders slump, and his fingers twitch as if to reach out. “I know. Thanks, O.” 

In non-verbal agreement, two of them walked out of the bathroom and into the small room shoulder to shoulder and elbow to elbow, a united front for an unseeing audience of one. Curt’s gut churned as if oily snakes had taken up residence in his stomach.

“Do you want to wake him up, love?” Owen asked.

“Eh, no. You can do the honours.”

The masks slipped on, the two of them entered into the dance, the tango half improvised and partially etched all the way into their partnership: Curt the muscle, the looming mass in the dark behind the shallow charisma of Owen Carvour, the British smarmy fuck who was only there to ruin your evening with a smile. The whiplash between the two consistently broke marks and brought results.

The resounding slap across the jowls woke Theo and Curt came to a realisation that burst in his gut – this may not work. The man was smiling, all gums and bright eyes that gleamed dangerously for one who had just woken up from an outsider-induced slumber. The wound on his temple seeped, an upturned smile cut into his head that reflected the one plastered across his face.

“Matching, Curt,” Theo spat out, his eyes ghosted across Curt’s forehead, leaving an icy trail, but it did nothing to quell the fiery glance that Owen sent his way at the utterance of his name. _Idiot._ “Oop! Sorry, did I hit a nerve?” Theo looks between the two of them, eyes alight with mirth.

And so, as any sane man would do, Owen punched him straight in the teeth. Mouths tended to gush; Curt had noticed in his experience with interrogations. Theo’s was no different.

“O, that’s going to make a mess.” He said gruffly, watching the ruby current spew from Theo’s mouth and down the man’s powder blue shirt.

Owen just gave him a whip of a smile that tore across his face. Curt could never think of the man as ugly, but it was as close as Owen got in these moments of callous violence. It caught the shadows of his face and _pulled,_ pulled him like taffy into something sharp and hard and not his.

Curt flirted vaguely with the idea of stopping his partner. This was admittedly outside of the steps of the dance, and Curt was the one who naturally ended the night with bruised knuckled but…they always improvised some—this was just…a new piece of music.

_God Owen was turning him into some kind of sap._

“What’s your name?” Owen spat through gritted teeth. As if he didn't know already. 

“Ask your partner.”

Curt sighed; pinching his nose, he said, “The name he gave me was Theo, but that’s obviously not his real name.”

“How could you say that, dear?” Theo asking in mock offence, “I would swoon at such an attack on my person, but it seems I am already bound, nowhere to fall.”

“I’m sure we could find somewhere.”

Theo laughed like grit, “Oh, don’t flirt with me, Agent Carvour. You’re the one who emptied your clip into my wall and missed for Christ’s sake. Talk about poor aim.” Owen frozen, Curt watched the muscles in his partner’s neck jump, but nothing more gave away his agitation. The man was really signing his own death certificate with every word that fell from his lips. Curt had an intimate understanding of Owen’s protective nature when it came to his identity. He had family, and MI6 was not one for splurging on safe houses for family members.

“How do you know that name?” Owen surged forward, wound like a spring and arms pistoning towards Theo. Curt grabbed his bicep, thumb digging into the muscle near-painfully, and Owen rounded on him, eyes wild.

“Ah yes, protect me, Curt!” Theo crowed from the floor.

“What the fuck, man?” Curt seething, pushing Owen behind him as he rounded on Theo. “What do you want?” He had never come across someone so blasé in the face of torture and seemingly all for the fun of it.

“I want you, my dear, and your partner if that’s what you want. I can share.”

Curt felt Owen freeze more than he saw it; the air in the room grew heavy like the treacle that Owen always claimed was good for him. 

Theo wiggled his hands, “Oh, don’t tell me,” rocks fumbled around in Curt’s intestines at the words. “He doesn’t know?”

Curt stumbled back, the world darkened and warbled at the corners, the edges of himself frayed. 

“I guess that does make sense. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him round the circuit.”

“…Curt, what is he talking about?” Owen asked and Curt dare not look at him. Trust Owen to break protocol and ask when it _mattered._

Theo ignored Owen, his eyes boring into Curt, “This is why I want you with us, look at you. How can you go around, walk around, and no one knows? You _reek_ of it and I know you want it. To walk with that pretty head so, so high.” Theo's eyes drifted over Curt’s shoulder to where he knew Owen stood. “I get it though, if you want to bring him along. But well, we don’t take kindly to people not of our own ilk.”

Curt would never take the blame for what happened next. What is a man to do when he sees red, and the world turns and spins off its axis?

His fist connected with Theo’s face, right over the left eyes; rage always made his aim particularly poor. Before he knew it, he was on top of Theo’s writhing body, and all he could hear was the sea. He had thrown himself off the cliff into the ruby waves that crushed any logical whisperings of his mind. Vaguely he could hear his own name, murmured in space, but that was beyond him. Both hands, one ruined the other perfectly intact for the moment, rained down upon the man, swinging with a swiftness saved for rare occasions. This was not a calm place, where everything slid into place; this was not a moment where he found himself in the violence. Every part of everything Curt was, was dripping from him with each spray of blood that came from a split knuckle, a torn lip, the crunch on brittle bones, and the shattered reflection of himself that flashed in the puddles beneath his aching knees.

And Theo was laughing, teeth pink, splintered pearls in his mouth. Curt could feel arms encircling him, vices against his straining body. He could hear a distant _You stay the fuck—the fuck away from him._

He knew his mouth was moving, but those words hadn’t come from his mind; it was a blank slate, rushing and moving and diving and _—_

“Curt.” Owen was pleading in his ear; his breath was chilled against his flushed skin. He stopped fighting, flaccid against the power of Owen’s voice. He heard a sigh against his shoulder—Owen was leaning on him. _Jesus._

Theo spat out an already congealing globule of blood—near black—upon the carpet; he was looking more like minced meat than man, “We…we can help you, Curt.”

“You think he’s going to join you; you arse? Can’t you see you’re losing here?” Owen questioned.

“You’ll come around eventually. Chimera will save us all. No more secrets, more shame.”

Owen stepped forward, “What’s Chimera?”

Theo laughed and laughed. His hiccupping gurgles filled with agony and mirth in equal measure leaving the two agents chilled to the marrow. Yellowed froth formed at the corner of his mouth, fizzing – quiet like soda pop. Fuck, Curt could have gone for some pop right then and there.

“Cyanide,” Curt said dispassionately, watching Theo’s death throws.

“Looks like it.” 

Owen at least had the courtesy to avert his gaze.

Theo finally fell silent, and they were back in the dance, two men and their dead body.

“Well, that was quick. They normally last a good minute but not a surprise considering he’s—”

“Curt,” Owen whispered, and Curt noticed the misstep in the dance; he stumbled to a stop. Owen was meant to give a snarky comment back so they could ignore the fact that there was a nightmare-inducing corpse laying on the ground in front of them.

“Owen.”

“What the fuck did you do?” Curt flinched back; the slap of Owen’s words stung.

“The guy killed himself, O.”

“Look at his face, you imbecile! You did that!”

Curt’s words stuck in his throat, sharp shards of glass that he just wished to throw across the room at his partner to defend himself.

“We’re going to have to—”

Curt rushed over him, “He was threatening you!” 

Owen worried his lip, _cigarette or serious?_

“But why would you…do _that_? You know, I mean I know he—he hurt you, but no one deserves that, Mega.”

Curt looked down at the body again, taking in the concaved features, the skull like a cracked chicken’s egg, the flesh and grey matter that spilt from the shell of Theo’s body. Oh…his hands were shaking, tremors were shimmying and fucking jiving down his spine in some kind of bastardised panic party, and his vision swum and drifted and sunk, and _Jesus,_ he was sure the shadows the room had suddenly gotten too bright, and he was slipping and swaying, and the floor was surely swallowing him cause how did he get down here otherwise? The carpet met his cheek with a scratchy kiss.

“No, no. Not there. Come on, egg,” Owen whispered. Curt could vaguely feel his limbs being manoeuvred, and the plush pillows greeted him, much nicer than Theo’s.

He thought he might have heard Barb’s voice for a moment, floating into the room. How did she get here? She was staying on the other side of the city.

He didn’t look, not close enough, the wallpaper had a lovely floral pattern that he had found himself engrossed by; he’d never seen flowers speckled like that before, nothing that was such a deep crimson that shifted and changed. He was telling the time by the rippling movements in these flowers, but they didn’t seem to be telling him the truth because they grew dark so quickly and hours, surely, could not have passed. They eventually turned brown when he heard it.

“Love…they’ve finished.”

Curt stared at his hands; he couldn’t feel them, couldn’t feel, couldn’t—

“Mega?”

There were fingers in his hair, pulling out the tangles that were caked in by viscera. It would have been painful, despite the gentleness of the hand, his hair seemed to want to hold onto the blood that it was doused in, that it was galvanised in.

“Love, can you hear me? There’s no one here. Everyone’s gone, but we need to go. Safehouse. The whole kit and caboodle, according to Cynthia.”

“…Cynthia?”

“Of course, that’s what you respond to, loyal as a hound you are. She ordered tetanus shot by the way; you didn’t even complain. Which is a first.”

Curt blinked slowly, his eyelids were gummed and heavy, but he could feel a smile rising on his lips without his permission.

“Ah, there it is! Beautiful smile, my pet, now come on up, you hop. There’s a car waiting for us, and I want some damn shut-eye.” Two warm hands lay upon his shoulder, leaving his stomach flipping and a groan tumbled from his lips.

“Jesus, Carvour. Cut a man a break,” Curt groaned as he rolled out of bed. Owen swooped down and grabbed him by the forearms, pulling him up upon his shaking legs. The room was spotless, no body in sight and no petals and raindrops of blood anymore except for Curt’s special part of the wall.

“I’ll cut you a break when you can walk on your own.” Curt would never let anyone see him like this, or for anyone to say such a thing to him. However, Owen’s halogen smile settled inside his chest and made itself at home. So, of course, he let it slide.

“Nice shoes, O.”

“Thanks, they were a gift.”

The blood barely showed up on the deep red leathers of Owen’s new brogues.

And the two wandered down the stairs to the car. They were off into the night. Owen didn’t let go of his arm, and Curt was sure he was burning up.

Safe houses were always, always, always shit. He’d seen the movies despite the fact that they were nearly entirely inaccurate except for incredibly attractive partners and ridiculously harsh bosses. The hotels and safehouses, on the other hand, a fiction of the silver screen and nothing more.

The safe house that they were given, organised in such a rush, by the _Americans_ no less was horrible. It had one fireplace, and for a city teetering on the edge of winter, it was not nearly enough to keep the clapboard place warm. When Owen had seen the place, he sighed and muttered, “Americans.” But the creak of the near-rotten floorboards had swallowed his discontentment whole.

Owen had forced himself on Curt, fussing around him like a mother hen, putting him in his room, laying him on the bed and generally making a right nuisance of himself. It was undeniably adorable.

“Owen,” Curt whinged as the English spy went to tuck him in.

“You can’t get cold, not since you re-injured that hand, you numpty.”

“I’m not a child.” Curt crossed his arms, ignoring the stiffness in his limbs and Owen just laughed, looking down at him with what Curt could only describe as fondness.

“Eh,” Owen began, “Prove it.”

The man had flounced out before Curt could think of a remarkably witty response.

Curt let him go and stared up at the ceiling, watching a spider weave its web in the corner. It danced delicately to its own internal tune, turning on a dime to create its masterpiece.

Curt was jealous of the spider.

Spiders couldn’t get nearly outed and then beat a man, essentially, to death.

They didn’t have those troubles.

Fucking spiders.

Curt rubbed his eyes with his better fist; as spots popped across his vision, he turned away from the ceiling and buried his face in the dusty pillows. Sleep took him mercifully, unconsciousness snatching away any ability for him to fret.

But dreams, my dearest ones, are bitches.

And Owen was shrieking and screaming and shifting into some light-haired beast with gnashing sharp teeth and skin that boiled and split; with bulbous, gleaming eyes that rolled in their sockets, and Curt was snatched up in its hands and caressed like a lover before it bit off his head. But Curt was, miraculously, alive and the beast was back to Owen, all caring and guilty and whisperings of _sorry sorry sorry_ past his lips and his fingers ghosted over the gash that was his neck. With shaking hands Owen was reaching for a gun, tears gushing from his eyes and Curt tried to wipe them away as the shot rung out. 

And, of course, he woke up screaming. _Fucking bloody murder,_ as Owen would say.

Sweat had pooled in the sheets that stuck to him like skin. He could feel his teeth chattering so hard he was sure they were going to run straight out of his jaw. The door crashed open, and there was Owen, dark-eyed and sleep ruffled, a gun in hand pointed straight at him.

_Pointed. Straight. At. Him._

“Owen!”

“Fuck sorry,” the gun was no longer in his general direction, and a soft look crawled across Owen’s face slowly. “Nightmare?”

“Y-yeah,” Curt muttered, wiping his sweaty brow. He paused before snickering, “Thanks for not shooting me, old boy.”

Owen scowled, and Curt found himself mourning the loss of the softer Owen who had been there only moments ago. “I thought someone had gotten in, and they’d—I was so _worried_ about you.”

“Course, fair enough I was screa—”

“No…that’s not what I meant.”

“Ah, I see,” Curt said stupidly, already kicking himself for not taking literature classes at college, then maybe he would have had a damn idea of what to say.

And he _knew,_ it was carved into his very being by Cynthia, that he should not get attached to anyone in the field, especially not British pricks like Carvour, and he also _knew_ that they had a similar policy over at MI6. Kept everything cleaner, well, as clean as things could be in the business of secrets and murder and espionage, of course. 

But it seemed neither of them were particularly good at following the rules. Especially considering, in the half-light of the street lamps, it seemed that Owen was rubbing at a suspiciously snotty nose with the butt of his gun.

“Do you…ah, do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

“I dunno, your feelings?”

“Every the eloquent one, Mega,” Owen smiled, and although Curt couldn’t see the details, he could hear it shaped around his name.

“I’ll leave that job up to you, Carvour. Now come over here and tell me about these pesky worries of yours.”

Owen walked like a frightened animal. He placed the gun on the bedside table and sat next to Curt, stiff as a board and on top of the blankets. Curt internally conceded that it was a start; it was really the closest the two had been to each other without Curt being injured. (Owen was rarely injured, not even a scrap the git.) So, he just watched the muscles in his partner’s jaw jump in the shadows and reached for his flask on the nightstand. The burn hit his throat and left a pleasant hum in his stomach.

“Do you, er, want me to turn the light on?” Curt asked.

“No,” Owen gritted out.

Curt rolled his eyes; masculinity was fun sometimes. Christ alluring most of the time but really?

“Why did you have your communicator off, Curt?”

Maybe it was good that the lights were off, eyes as wide as saucers tended to be a brilliant expression of guilt.

“Ah, I hope you remember that we fought? That’s why I was out.”

“That’s not a reason to turn it off.”

“You want to talk about my communicator instead of your feelings?”

“Deflection.”

“Deflection!” Curt shot back to Owen’s sigh. Victory did indeed taste sweet.

He felt Owen shift, his body clicking after being at rest for so long. “I just…I hate the idea that you felt the need to—just because we—and then you.” Owen let out a choked gasp.

_Oh, shit._ Curt found his hand on Owen’s before his brain could catch up with his idiotic body. “O, really, it’s not your fault. It’s all mine. Did you turn off my communicator? Which would be a feat of skill from all the way in the hotel room by the way. No. You didn’t. So, you can’t blame yourself. ‘sides you came and got me. Made the room look like swiss cheese and all.”

“Well, I know you like swiss.”

Curt let that sink in for a moment. “That is…truly the dumbest thing you’ve ever said,” Curt sniggered.

And then they were laughing, light in the chest, cheek tinging laughter. Christ, they were not good at the heavy talk.

“I’m sorry I made you worry, O, I would never intentionally do that. I hope you know that.” Curt took another swig from the flask, letting the whiskey sit in his mouth for a moment, letting it burn all the words that he wanted to spew out.

“I do,” Owen whispered and pulled his hand out from under Curt’s. The absent was duly noted by the shattering of his heart. But he locked that down, deep within his chest, because his friend was hurting right now. Get that shit in the _homo homestead_ and keep it there.

“Good,” Curt whispered.

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of the London traffic that never quite abated but left a distant hum in the air.

Owen eventually relaxed a bit, from stiff board to regular stiff human. He turned to Curt, his face now entirely in shadow, his warm breath skated across Curt’s face as he spoke. “I thought you were dead.”

Curt let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding onto in one woosh, “Well…that sucks. What would you do without me, eh? Cry, I assume.”

“Yeah maybe.” Owen was looking down at his hands, and Curt clicked his mouth shut because, damn it, why did he decide to laugh at that exact moment? Owen’s fingers played some unknown nervous tune on the air, unaware or ignoring Curt’s faux pas. “I guess I really shouldn’t have—”

“Cared?”

“Yeah.”

Curt’s stuttering heart had burrowed its way into his throat at this point and was not, by any stretch of the imagination, about to vacate the premises any time soon, so he just pulled at the threads of the blanket he was burrowed under.

“Well, if it matters…I’m glad you do. Care I mean,” he whispered, feeling Owen’s eyes on him through the screen of shadow that sat between them. He felt the warmth of Owen’s had right next to his cheek. The tiny hairs of his face brushed up against the softness of his skin, but they didn’t touch, just disturbed the air around one another. Curt’s brain supplied, _you never touch, just two planets orbiting one another,_ and that was just another reason for Curt to be thankful he never took lit at college.

“I’m glad too,” Owen whispered before reaching for his gun and padding out of the room. He hung from the doorframe, facing Curt, the street light leaving him a golden creature in the night; he murmured a goodnight and closed the door.

Curt screamed into his pillow.

* * *

“I will literally summon Satan into this house to tear you to pieces, Mega if you ever try to cook again! I will risk my eternal soul for you to _never_ cook in my presence,” Owen yelled, coughing and spluttering like a drama queen in Curt’s opinion. It was just eggs.

“Your soul’s already fucked, my dear,” Curt hummed and too late, there was already a pillow hitting him square in the face, “Oof! Hey! I was just trying to do something nice! To say thank you, you ass!”

“Well, that’s why you should never be nice. It really doesn’t suit you.” Owen snarked; moving through the cloud of smoke like a dream, leaving a swirling cloak of grey in his wake. He looked into the pot, “What is this anyway?”

“Eggs,” Curt said simply, staring at Owen.

“What?!” Owen turned and caught his gaze, “What?”

Curt coughed, “I-I, where did you get this?” Curt pinched the knitted monstrosity around Owen’s neck; all colours of the rainbow hung off him; it was soft under his fingers, handmade.

“Erm, my mum.”

“Quite the lady.”

Owen scowled with a playful quirk of the lip, “Sod off you twat, don’t be going after my mother.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, dear.”

Something in Owen’s face softened; all the edges and the corners were just a little rounder. Curt snatched that image and put it away for safekeeping.

“I think she would like you, though.”

“Your mum?”

“Yes, she has truly terrible, terrible taste.”

“Genetic,” Curt lets it slip out. He felt the blush already coming on, so he hid his face in the smoke. Owen let out a guffaw and swanned off as if it meant nothing.

“Put that pot in the bin. It’s a lost cause, trust me,” Owen called over his shoulder.

Curt rolled his eyes, clamping down on his hammering heart and found the rusty old bin and introduced it to the ruined pot.

* * *

Curt, he was really a child at heart. With that being said, we must consider that children are really, genuinely annoying. That’s how Curt found him kicking the threadbare couch and staring at the ceiling; his hands were virtually out of action after he kept dropping the cups of tea Owen handed to him, so he only had his feet for company, and they were of _no use._

Lunch had been a disaster.

Fucking smug Carvour with his _face._

Fucking spoon.

Fucking safe house.

Curt gave the couch a resounding kick out of revenge.

It was not as satisfying as he would have hoped. Being alone always left Curt with a sour taste in his mouth, and today was entirely worse. Owen was civil, sure, kind even, but the man was avoiding him. He would talk, but his eyes wouldn’t meet Curt’s and not to be a sap, but he loved looking at those eyes. He knew he had been possibly too vulnerable in the last twenty-four hours. Owen was never one to express emotion, and the man had nearly wept. He thought it was that kind of along the lines of permission to delve a little deeper than shallow banter, but now that Owen’s continual absence haunted him, Curt had realised his mistake.

So, his mind strayed and came to one conclusion—Owen had figured it out. It wouldn’t be particularly hard, considered what Theo had said, he really had expected there to be the ‘confrontation-denial-let’s never-talk-about-this-again-and-pretend-that-Curt-is-painfully-straight-for-the-rest-of-our-lives’ kind of conversation. But it didn’t happen, and Curt kind of hoped for it. If only to cut the tension to smithereens and bury it someplace safe where it could never get between the two of them again.

Curt found himself recalling some advice from Cynthia when he was first going to meet Owen for their initial joint mission, “He’s a prick. Arrogant. So, you two should get on like a house on fire. _Don’t_ set a fucking house on fire, and don’t piss him off. From what I’ve heard from across the pond, the kid’s a little icy. We can’t have icy! We’ve got a good relationship with the Brits and I will not have some country _fuck_ like you ruining that. Right, you better— fucking sort your shit out, Mega! Cause you piss off everyone!”

Shit.

Curt found himself standing up.

_He made Owen fucking icy._

Owen Carvour was pissed at him. Obviously, he had gotten caught and caused them to be stuck in this shitty icebox of a house and now they couldn’t even look for Chimera. The case was given to some other slick, young agents who were so green they didn’t know which end of the pistol the bullet came out of. 

Curt was an _idiot._

And so, he hobbled through the house, he could hear the strains of Nina Simone’s _Plain Gold Ring_ which really was…great. How did he even get that record? Owen had dragged Curt to Simone’s concert only a few months ago and she didn’t have any records out yet. But Curt’s thought came to a grinding halt as he caught himself in the hallway’s rusted mirror. He looked like real shit. His hair was askew, and his face was coved in mottled contusions that bloomed through the pallor of his complexion. He hadn’t realised he looked so terrible.

He knocked on the door anyway.

Nina stopped immediately with a warbled cry, and Curt vaguely noted that treating a record like that would not cause it to last.

“Come in.” He heard from within, so Curt opened the door to a sight few, if any, had been privy to. Owen sat in a patchwork chair, curled up in a ball, reading a book with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses balanced delicately upon his nose. “Oh, hello, Curt. What can I do for you?”

“What are you reading?” Curt blurted out.

Owen quirked an eyebrow, looking Curt up and down for a moment. The other agent let out a long-suffering sigh and held up the cover. Curt stepped closer to read _Howl Kaddish and Other Poems,_ but the copy looked new and…cheap? It was more like a tiny chapbook than any of the tomes that he had seen Owen reading in the past.

“Jesus, you need to get your eyes checked, Mega,” Owen said, leaning back.

“And you’re reading poetry, Carvour.” Owen huffed at that, and Curt mentally berated himself. He needed to stop with the defensive. Honestly, it was just getting him in trouble. “Er, what’s it about?”

“I don’t know. I only just started it, but it’s…American.”

“Really?”

“Yes, a friend got it for me, straight from the horse’s mouth and all that. Burroughs is quite the resource when he wants to be.”

Curt felt a rush of something cold and sickly through his veins at the mention of some Burroughs bloke. “Couldn’t you just buy it?”

Owen fiddled with the pages for a moment, staring at the pages, “Erm no. I mean, it’s not in bookstores.”

“Oh, why?”

Owen ran his hand through his hair before looking up at Curt, “It was banned about erm six months ago, I think?”

“Why?”

“Lots of questions, Mega.”

“I’m a spy, Carvour.”

Owen settled further into his chair, watching as Curt shuffled from foot to foot. “I suppose you are. If you must know, it’s considered… _indecent._ ”

“Indecent?”

Owen looked up over his glasses, “Indecent.”

_Oh._

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, _Oh,_ O,” Curt said with a smile. He was sure his palms were slick, so he wiped them subtly on the door frame. He noticed that Owen noticed, of course, but neither felt the need to mention that they had noticed. Spies noticed things and that was really just that. 

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” Owen asked with a smile that was all force and no mirth. He laid down the book upon the side table. “Well, come out with it Mega, you didn’t come in here to ask me about books. I know you can’t read after all; the American education system seems to continually fail its youth.”

Curt rolled his eyes and took a tentative step into his partner’s room, he looked around, but the only seating option was the bed.

He sat on the floor instead, looking up at his partner through his eyelashes. He tried his best, his absolute best, to banish the images that flashed through his mind – traitors, every single on of them.

“Course I do— Owen…I just want to check, as a professional courtesy, that we’re…okay. I mean, I get the feeling that you may be mad at me.”

Now, if Curt was a mediocre spy, he wouldn’t have noticed the shifting of Owen’s weight on the chair or the way a tiny pucker appeared between his eyebrows, or the way his eyes moved from Curt’s to the spot just above his left eye – where Theo had decided Curt needed a laceration. But Curt was a _good_ spy, the best in a lot of ways, and so he did indeed notice these things.

“I’m not mad at you.”

“But you are something.”

“Something…” Owen sighed with a sardonic quirk of the lip. He rubbed his chin, stubble already growing after only a day without a razor to his face. “Curt, I just—Why did you…you really fucked that Chimera guy up.”

There it was, and Owen was looking all exposed, one live-wire of nerves.

“So…not about the eggs?”

Owen shook his head with a gloomy smile before he continued, “You said…you said he jumped you, right? Did he…did he come onto and you just—” Owen cut himself off, curling in on himself like a leaf in the chill, and Curt was staring, taking it all in cause Owen thought…Owen thought…

“Wait, you think I beat the snot out of that guy cause of…the fact he was gay?”

The pleadingly wide look that Owen gave him was enough of an answer.

“Honestly, Owen, is that what’s got you all…?” Curt gestured to all of him with a wave of his hand. “You assume I’m some kind of homophobe?”

“Most people are,” the sad little coughs and smiles that Owen was provided would have to stop, right there and then, Curt had decided.

Curt crawled over and laid himself against the arm of Owen’s chair, just grazing the pant leg of his partner with his arm, “Well, I’m not most people. Too much of an idiot for that. ‘sides he was threatening you.”

“You studied politics and advanced mathematics at college, Curt.”

“We both know that doesn’t count for nothing.”

Owen hummed noncommittally, “You know I don’t…I don’t think you’re stupid. No matter what I say, I’m just teasing.”

“Alright, dear,” and Curt was patting Owen’s shin as if it meant something.

Owen stared at Curt’s hand, and Curt removed it, bringing the offending limb into his lap.

“Do you think…do think that guy was crazy?” Owen asked.

“I mean, obviously, he was snacking on a cyanide pill _and_ came after two of the best spies on the globe. He’d have to be, old boy.”

“No, I mean…I mean, Jesus, you know what I mean. Like he said about freedom and all that. Not having to hide. I mean the guy who wrote this book…he’s gay and…it’s really, um, beautiful I suppose…” The words spilled out of Owen’s mouth like a deluge, and Curt knew that look on his face particularly well as he tended to wear it the most in their relationship. Regret.

Curt thought for a moment, letting his head fall back against the arm of the chair as he stared at the cracks in the ceiling, each one creating an interconnected network of structural damage that spelt out a threat of a caved-in roof with every passing second. Curt looked away to the open planes of his partner’s face instead. Really, just as dangerous. 

He swallowed, the gummy feeling in his throat wouldn’t remove itself, and the words felt heavy in his chest, cutting into his soft insides with every mangled breath he took.

“I don’t think it’s crazy exactly…” He watched as Owen visible deflated, and Curt rushed to correct himself, “But, the way to go about it is all wrong. No more secrets? Everything out in the open? People have a right to…keep things to themselves. In our line of work, especially the thought of it just makes me…” The face of his mother flashed within his mind.

“Sick?”

“Sick, yeah. Christ,” Curt rubbed his face with his hands. This conversation was straying into dangerous and uncharted territory.

“I sometimes…sometimes wish it were true.”

“What?”

“That we didn’t have to keep secrets,” Owen muttered.

Curt was already halfway through a sigh, “I know that Carvour, context clues, I was expressing surprise.”

“Oh.”

The two fell into silence for a moment; the room was still around them, holding its breath and waiting for the tension to break. The plumbing moaned lamely throughout the house.

“Not a great feeling for a spy, wanting to be out in the open, I mean,” Curt found himself saying.

Owen smirked at that. His dark eyes gleamed.

“We’ve all got to come out of the shadows at some point.”

_Ah fuck._

“O-Owen…please don’t.”

Owen was worrying his lip, and there was no pack of cigarettes in sight. Curt was now gripping onto the bottom of the chair; his knuckles were white through the green-blue bruises, and pain ran rivers up his arms, leaving him light-headed.

“I just…”

Curt bit his lip, and copper burst across his tongue; he steeled himself, “You’re right. Whatever—whatever you’re going to say, and I think we both know what going to come spewing out of your stupid mouth, you’re right, and I’m—” Curt bit back a sob because _fuck this_ all the way to Hell. “and I’m so fucking…so fucking sorry O, I know you…it’s gotta be just shit for you, but please, _please_ don’t report me. I promise it doesn’t—it doesn’t change anything about our work together, and I can still do my job, and I know you’ve had your little slip in MI6, and I know that they were…that some of them, they were like me, but that doesn’t mean— you can trust me even though I’m a f—”

“Curt!” Owen was on his knees (when did he get there?), and he was taking Curt’s shoulders and shaking him like a fucking rag doll. Curt went to fight him off weakly. The world shimmered behind the membrane of his tears that dribbled down his cheeks in pathetic little lines. “Oi! Stop it! Stop it!” Owen took his wrists delicately in his rough hands and put Curt’s own hands to his chest. He could feel his heartbeat through the knit jumper the man wore; it was thumping and sputtering like a jackrabbit.

Curt paused, feeling as if he was caught in a slack tide, everything stopped moving, and he was adrift.

“Curt listen,” he waited for the tears to stop sliding down Curt’s cheeks, wiping them away with his calloused thumbs, before he continued, “Love, I promise, boy scout and all, that it doesn’t matter a tod to me where you’re getting your jollies. Well, as long as it’s not guys like Theo, what an arsehole,” Owen chuckled.

Curt sniffled, looking up at Owen for a moment, he could feel his knees pressed into Owen’s warm abdomen, and he only wished to be wrapped up by the man and carried away from this moment, which really was ironic since Owen had created it himself, but hey, Curt was a complex man.

“Y-you were a boy scout?”

Owen was laughing again, rolling chuckles and pinched cheeks and the promise of crow’s feet in the future, and Curt wanted to see it. He wanted to watch Owen get old, go grey and get all grumpy about youth music and dance around the kitchen like Grace Kelly as they cooked spaghetti. Or at least while Owen cooked spaghetti and he supervised and chose the wine. 

“That’s what you get out of this, love?”

“I mean—”

Then there was warmth, soul-shattering, God proving, undeniable warmth running through him, up and down his body connected at his lips that were pressed against Owen’s. They were by no means soft; the cold had caused them to chap, and they didn’t move. They just sat there for a moment, suspended in the resin.

Owen Carvour was definitely kissing him.

And then he wasn’t; the man pulled away with a shy smile and eyelashes that kissed the light smattering of freckles under his eyes. Roses had blossomed across his cheeks and nose. He was truly as pretty as a picture.

“Wha—”

“I trust you, Curt.”

Owen leaned in again, and Curt rushed to meet him this time; they bumped noses and teeth and smiles that ran from one mouth to the other. The slide of their lips was off, clumsy, perfect, ungainly and absolute shit, maybe the wors—best kiss Curt had ever had. God, he was sure the sun was shining down on them even though the shitty English sky cried, and the room was balmy all because of this British prick.

They pulled apart with airy laughs that were barely there and skated across each other’s skin. Curt cupped Owen’s cheek, whisking the tears that fell down his cheeks away. He pressed his forehead to Owen’s and giggled at Owen’s glasses that barely clung to his face, half-covered in condensation for their hot breath.

“I don’t really know what I want from this world and I have no right to want anything from you, but I do. I really do,” Owen murmured.

God, he was well and truly fucked.

* * *

Curt’s body aches, a deep, marrow-based hurt that hooks into his body—remorseless. There’s nothing around him. The world has been blotted out or has just given up on existing altogether and he’s floating or being dragged underwater or possibly he’s already in his grave six feet under. All he can distinguish; all he knows, is that perfect little circle.

The centre of the world brought down to a piddly little void that used to be filled up with everything.

That perfect little crimson circle in the middle of a pale river of skin, surrounded by dark reeds of hair.

That perfect little crimson circle that screams itself hoarse.

That perfect little crimson circle that stops him from seeing his crow's feet get deeper. 

That perfect little crimson circle that would stop them from dancing to Nina Simone. 

That perfect little crimson circle that speaks of fire and the horrors of men.

That perfect little crimson circle that was—

Owen.

He could have been God—Owen and Chimera. Chimera and Owen. 

But God was dead and rotting in Hell.

He remembers and remembers and remembers. He knew that name; a near-forgotten scar freshly torn, that splashes blood on the ground as if it wasn't precious, leaving only a dark red halo in its wake.

And the only cold comfort was the fact that the worms that would eat Owen’s body would someday eat his too.

**Author's Note:**

> SORRY! 
> 
> But also the beatnik bi vibes I get from Owen. Very strong! You know he was into queer poetry! You know it!
> 
> Also points for spotting some Starkid references that I've thrown in for fun!
> 
> EDIT: Also, I'm in the process of writing some more long for Owen/Curt business that you can check out here -- https://archiveofourown.org/works/29812452/chapters/73347075


End file.
